Luck Be a Lady
Tonight, I Don’t Want to Catch Hepatitis
How Donny and Marie
Softened a Hardened Heart
Today's essay was originally and inaccurately entitled
"Las Vegas: Trash Bin of America" and as one would imagine by such a
startling, starting descriptive, it was not intended to be in any way, shape or
form a flattering depiction of the Nevada resort city. But no matter how closed
one's mind, no matter how petty one's thoughts, no matter how snobby or superior
one's initially unwavering ethos or impression of a place not their home or not
in entirety to their taste or experiences or preferences (and after being rightfully
labeled a "grump" by one's thankfully patient and tolerant traveling
companion) even such severe and prejudicially incorrect and unfair opinions and
beliefs can still be easily altered, so people get ready, there's a change
a-comin’. But at the offset, I do beg your indulgence and request you bear with
me, for without the highly negative beginning, there can be no shock of
positive discovery or ultimately pleasant denouement.
The Malfeasance of
Misconception
Las Vegas - city of wonder, city of magic, a land of dreams
pursued, and dreams fulfilled. Of golden-hued sunsets and gathering gaggles of
red-state residents joining groups from even redder states, rebel flag tattoos
proudly unfurled on flabby flesh, billowing in the autumn breeze like Granny’s
bloomers on the laundry line; all gregariously welcoming the unlimited supplies
of fermented spirits, opened wallets, opened hearts and the opened appendages
of the celebrated and explicitly advertised army of the workers of the evening.
 |
| New York, New York - "Give me your tired, your poor, your drunken gamblers yearning to breathe free." |
Worth and station measured by volume of alcohol consumed,
regaling comrades with tall tales of the glory of drunken revelries and
exploits, as if such yarns bespeak rare and admirable accomplishments of which
there is ever a boast or brag (should auld acquaintance be forgot, keep your
eye on that grand old flag, as it’s highly likely that an unsteady tourist may
lose his comped lunch upon it.)
Where class is something you take to learn to work a
stripper pole, where the wisest and wealthiest man is surely the one with the
forethought to open the first Hoveround dealership and where troubles melt like
lemon drops away above the chimney tops as you enjoy refined and cultured artists
by the names of Carrot Top, Tater Salad “the “cigar-smoking, scotch-drinking
funnyman”, Vinnie Favorito, Winston the Impersonating Turtle and those who have
invested in sufficient cosmetic surgery to resemble a beloved deceased
celebrity nightly plying their trade in theatres bearing their own appellations,
finding gold in them there hills and making Branson look like the Globe or Old
Vic.
Enter the hotel piano bar, ordinarily a city’s site of
sophistication, purveyor of the melodious tunes and erudite lyrics of the
Gershwins, Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hart, but in this venue instead
dominated by selections from the Beavis and Butthead, heavy metal CD collection,
presented by an ivory-tinkler who thinks it the highest level of humor, wit and
urbanity to replace the proper lyrics with ones of his own, primarily
consisting of references to genitalia and their use, maintenance and care,
while overly-mature and inebriated patrons howl with gales of laughter as if
being privy to and pleasured by the finest comedy mind since Lenny Bruce and
Richard Pryor. "Very witty, Wilde.” Many a cougar in heated hope and
unfulfilled anticipation pounced upon said pianist with flashes of usually
unexposed skin and accompanied promises of a conceivable carnal carnival to
come.
For any female working within the confines of these bars,
casinos, restaurants or lounges, no matter their age, health or physical
conditioning, the wearing of barely-there, Victoria Secret-knock-off
undergarments as outerwear is a strict and unwavering requirement in order to
maintain any kind of steady employment. Modernity and societal progress lost in
a Gloria Steinem nightmare come to daylight fruition.
If it's true that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, as a
civilization, we are all better off for that.
Or so, I first believed. And while much of the negative
preface, greatly exaggerated for humorous intent, contains elements of veracity
and reality, there is much more to be had here. For like a shopping spree in TJ
Maxx or Daffy’s, true there is shoddy polyester to be procured but delve a
little further into the merchandise and unearth the quality cottons and fine
silks. Although Las Vegas is not home to a Carnegie Hall, a Lincoln Center, a
Metropolitan Opera, it is where you’ll revel in Marie Osmond’s remarkable and
impressive performance of Puccini’s famed aria, “Nessun Dorma” and where you
can dine on fine French fare in elegant surroundings with a view of almost
unsurpassed excellence, cheerfully served by friendly, happy, hospitable and
helpful bar and restaurant workers and staff, positive proof that unionization
works without resulting in Steve Wynn sobbing in his champagne, crying poverty.
 |
| Dinner with a view |
A Brother and Sister
Act Save the Soul of a Vacation
Talk about turning a frown upside down, friends, this I
swear, you can arrive at the striking Donny and Marie Showroom as the
beaten-down, sad subject of a country and western ballad – friendless, jobless,
your domicile, that very day, a victim of a vile arsonist, and you’ll depart
that theatre entertained, contented, grinning ear to ear, the fortunate
recipient of that week’s Powerball jackpot.
 |
| Donny's Dancing with the Stars Spoils |
In complete candor and honesty, I attended their show with
some expectation of kitsch as entertainment (once again cementing my
wrong-headedness in every aspect of this journey) with vague memories of
likable and wholesome teens hosting a dated 70's Sid and Marty Krofft variety
hour, of bad apples and paper roses; but Donny and Marie won over my erroneous attitude
with undeniable ability and versatility in a well-produced, well-presented,
wonderfully performed 90 minutes that had me wanting more and more and made me
a true believer with a desire to see them both relocate to my Gotham home, star
in each and every show on the Great White Way and further brighten the
footlights of Broadway.
Leave preconceived notions at the entrance, these Osmonds are
mature, stylish, experienced entertainers - recording, television, concert and
Broadway veterans, blessed with tremendous innate talent, which has only grown
and developed in their five decades of performing. They have lived full lives,
experienced the good, the joyful, the tragic and the woeful that all adults
must sometime encounter and that only serves to enhance the interpretive
abilities of a performing artist. This is both a classic and classy partnership
in full, engaging and compelling bloom.
As a vacation destination is “New York, New York,” New York?
Is “the Paris Hotel,” Paris? Is Las Vegas London, Amsterdam, Florence or Venice?
No. But even in a place where sex and alcohol are considered legitimate and accepted
forms of currency, many a gem can be mined.
The best that exists on Youtube of Marie's operatic chops appears to be from an audience member's cellphone. Obviously, the quality is lacking but you'll get a taste.
Any comments, questions, criticisms, candid confessions, cash contributions? Contact me at butchersaprons@mail.com.
No comments:
Post a Comment